King Felix was exiled, Heath Bell was freed…oh, and we pasted the Philadelphia Phillies. I mean pasted: This was a no-prisoners, baby-seal-clubbing, closed-casket rout.

A club-record seven home runs, including two by Victor Diaz (whom I'd

feared would be benched for forgetting how many outs there were

yesterday), two by Reyes, a majestic shot by Piazza (who'd never

homered in Citizens Bank Park, oddly) and David Wright's first grand

slam. Oh, and Mientky hit one too. I know you know — it was just fun

to type all that.

And don't forget Victor Zambrano, at least at the plate — on the mound

he was irritating as usual. Any time your pitcher has a two-run triple,

you can basically guarantee football scores are being posted. I mean,

has any pitcher ever hit a two-run triple and lost a 3-2 nailbiter?

Those things always come when it's 9-4 in the fifth. (For instance.)

Not like you could really blame the Phillies for that one — walking

the eighth-place hitter after he's connected twice isn't exactly

advanced strategy. Has a Met pitcher tripled since Leiter did it a

couple of years back? That remains one of my favorite

Shea memories — 30,000 people laughing at once is quite a sound.

A pause here to note my appreciation of Gary Cohen and Howie Rose as a

radio team. While I'd rather be watching on TV to catch the little

things, these two are just fantastic company. Loose, funny, smart,

historically minded — it's an absolute treat to listen to them. Two of

my favorite points made during the night: Why on earth was poor Mike

Lieberthal stuck in that mess for that long? And how did the Phillies

let the Mets club balls halfway to Portugal and never once sit someone

down in the batter's box? This isn't to say you knock Victor Diaz's

helmet off or something Clemenseque, but you can't just shrug off being

a team's personal BP pitchers. The game has definitely changed.

Anyway, I think we both agree that this was a baseball team in fairly

desperate need of a laugher. Late-inning magic is wonderful, but it's

also bloody exhausting.

Not that the first five games of the season didn't suck, especially the ninth inning of the first one (and the two in Atlanta — ah, they all sucked especially hard), but one could make a case for eerie fascination with history. When are we gonna win? Are we really gonna challenge the Orioles' record from 1988? Is 0-162 in the cards? Will we make the cover of Sports Illustrated? How awful will this get?

Then we began to win, which was, of course, magnificent. It felt so much like the season had begun anew that a familiar feeling crept in. What's it gonna be like when we lose? That's usually what I'm thinking after we start 1-0. The idea of a loss seems so foreign that at once I fear it because I can't imagine it and wait for it so I can be relieved that the world didn't end when it came.

Never mind that we'd already collected five losses. Those were the glorified exhibitions. After Saturday, we were an unblemished 6-0 in every way except the standings. Plus, each win had been more fabu (a word I picked up from a temp art director a long time ago) than the one before it. When are we gonna lose? Are we really gonna challenge the Giants' record from 1916? Is 157-0 — OK, 157-5 — in the cards? Will we make the cover of Sports Illustrated? How great will this get?

Then we lost on Sunday and sense of normalcy at last pervaded. We're a regular team that can't win 'em all but won't lose 'em all. We can start over like everybody else. Thus, Monday night was de facto Opening Day III, the first game of the rest of your year.

It's gonna be a lousy year from the looks of it.

I hate games like this. I hate games that are the second loss following a winning streak, thus invalidating that WE'RE THE KING OF THE WORLD! feeling from the winning streak. I hate the cold water games like these splash on my fan self-esteem. I hate that half the teams who played last night lost and we're in that half. I hate that even though it was April 18, we finished the night in last again (sub-hating that I fell asleep with Atlanta tied and woke up to find they won; I hate them in every state of consciousness there is). I hate how I look forward to a game all day and then it proves a travesty from the first inning on. I hate how I instantly lose interest in a game like this and start mindlessly flipping to other channels, thus missing nuggets like Heredia's “injury” manifesting itself. I hate that while we're losing, the Yankees are swallowing their dose of SlumpBeGone better known as the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. I hate that West Wing Marathon Monday on Bravo felt redundant, me having seen every episode they were showing at least a dozen times by now. I hate that it was 5-0 practically all night.

Then of course I hated the ninth inning, the 5-0 deficit shrinking tantalizingly to 5-4 but the bases emptying and Victor the Redeemer left, ultimately, in the on-deck circle, unredeemed. I hate that what was going to be one of those unremarkable “whaddayagonnado?” losses turned into one of those finals where I spend the next twenty minutes blurting “godmotherfuckingdamnit!” like an X-rated Rain Man and listening to Mets Extra just so I can be sure we weren't awarded two extra runs by the official scorer on the basis that he felt bad for us.

Oh well. I hate it less now that I've relived it. I think I just woke up in a bad mood.

Regarding your helpful count of new Mets and how they've been allotted on an annual basis, how futile have the last few years been anyway? At least 13 of the 29 debuts from 2004 will almost certainly never be seen in these parts again (James Baldwin, anyone?). As for the 29 nuMets from '02, three whole seasons ago, none are on the current roster. None! Only two, Seo and Strickland, are even still in the organization. Player turnover wasn't just invented, but this takes built-in obsolescence to farcical proportions. What was the 2002 slogan again? Oh, I remember it: “Blink Once And You'll Miss McKay Christensen…Blink Twice And You'll Miss Mark Little…Missed 'Em!”

Yes, let's get Heath Bell up here immediately. That will solve all our problems. No more runs will score against us from the sixth through the eighth. Time Warner and Cablevision will pound their swords into digital plowshares. Fran Healy will take a vow of silence. Pat Burrell will be traded to Detroit. Leo Mazzone will retire. General managers from coast-to-coast will apologize for daring to look up from their statistical printouts for even a moment but they had to so they could fire their know-nothing scouts. Pretzels will be fresh and a quarter. Whoever sits behind me at my next six-pack game will sip Aquafina and utter only witty, original insights in a moderate tone. And as unanimous Cy Young, MVP and USA Roller Sports Magazine Man of the Year Heath Bell blades his team to unforetold accomplishment, Mets bloggers everywhere will produce irrefutable evidence that Blake McGinley must replace him in 2006.

…two out of three ain't bad.

Once upon a time you could count

on A.J. Burnett to beat himself, but some wise man has taught him that

strikeouts are fascist and he oughta throw ground balls, seeing how

they're more democratic. Funny, he never struck me as the listening

sort in years past.

Anyway, between his still hitting 97 in the

ninth and Glavine being determined to spit the bit, it was all too

apparent our recent 4 o'clock lightning wasn't going to materialize. So

it goes; complaining about getting muzzled

after a six-game winning streak would be so Steinbrenneresque. (I loved

Big Stein's poor publicist having to issue a transcript of Pissy

Tantrum #9,312 after the Yanks got swept by the Orioles. This one was

good even for Steinbrenner: He noted that his team has the highest

payroll in the game and accused them of not playing “like true

Yankees,” both of which would be tailor-made to make me gag under

less-happy circumstances. How's that Kevin Brown trade looking, George?)

Still,

the Yankees are about to get one thing we really need, and I'm not

referring to another old, surly veteran. They're near a deal for a new

park, with the Daily News offering the details.

Much as it pains me to write it, they've behaved astonishingly well for

a modern sports franchise: The Yankees are paying for the park and

assuming all maintenance and operations costs, with the city chipping

in the land and some transportation infrastructure. The city even keeps

all the parking revenue.

So where does that leave us?

According to unnamed city officials, the Wilpons are focusing on the

new network and improving Shea.

Improving Shea?

Um, Earth to Planet Wilpon: Shea can only be improved by repeated,

enthusiastic application of the wrecking ball. Rehabilitating Shea is

like rehabilitating Mo Vaughn, and we all know how that turned out. If

the Yankees' deal goes through, what the Mets will have to do to get a

new park will be crystal-clear, and waiting will only make things cost

more. And frankly, we've waited long enough. TV is great and all (I

particularly appreciate it now that the Mets are weekend-only

programming for me), but when I get up for a Dr Pepper — strangely, it

never occurs to me to get a soggy pretzel or a soda without a cap —

Fred and Jeff don't make any money. C'mon, fellas. The New Mets deserve

a New Park.

Some miscellaneous items of note:

* Heath

Bell has retired the first 20 batters he's faced at Norfolk. Meanwhile,

we have three lefties in the bullpen, one of whom is Felix Heredia.

Felix hasn't been seen in some time; stadium employees whisper that

he's living somewhere in the darkness beneath the stands, attended by

his retinue of feral cats. Curiously, Willie Randolph refuses to let

anybody go look for him.

* Fans of the Holy Books

(currently there are two of us) may be interested to know that the New

Mets certainly live up to their name in terms of turnover: The

season-opening slate of 25 includes no less than 13 Met newcomers.

(Fourteen if you count the mysterious arrival of Aaron Heilman 2.0.)

That's

already more than or as many new Mets as we got to meet, meet, step

right up and greet in 16 previous campaigns. Sanity indicates we're

unlikely to rack up 35 new arrivals, as we did in 1967 — a figure of

dubious distinction approached in 2002 and again last year, when there

were 29 new Mets.* (The low is just four new Mets, back in 1988.)

Ah, hell with it. Here's the whole shebang.

1962-69: 45, 22, 19, 20, 17, 35, 8, 9
1970-79: 10, 8, 13, 13, 9, 17, 9, 14, 16, 14
1980-89: 13, 15, 13, 12, 15, 12, 10, 13, 4, 14
1990-99: 20, 13, 24, 20, 19, 25, 19, 24, 26, 20

2000-05: 22, 17, 29, 21, 29, 13 and counting

Oh, and bring on those Phillies.

* Not 28 in 2004, as originally written. E: Jason (9th, counting)

As befits a game won in the eighth and

then again in the ninth, the portion of the sold-out crowd that was ambling happily down the

ramps leading to Gate D was giddy as all get out Saturday. Given that

it was the sixth consecutive win for its team, there was bound to be

more than just an extra bounce to its step.

First, there was a generally joyful noise that contained no discernible words. Then several hearty rounds of “LET'S GO METS!” Then a brief digression into “YANKEES SUCK!” Then more “LET'S GO METS!”

I'd been caught up in post-win chants before. They rule. As I left a game in July '84 after Keith Hernandez beat Neil Allen in the tenth and increased the Mets' lead on the second-place Cubs, there was no containing the mass glee. “WE'RE NUMBER ONE!” alternated with “STEINBRENNER SUCKS!” back

then. I had just returned to New York from a summer semester in

college, desperately following the Mets' rise through box scores and

Sports Phone calls. If anything told me that what I'd imagined from

afar was happening for real, it was the chanting that continued that

night long after the winning run was scored.

So Saturday's refusal to stop cheering just because the game was over

and we were no longer looking at a field wasn't unprecedented. But this

was: As we streamed out of Gate D, a 7 train rolled by, heading west.

Unprompted but all at once, the mass of fans that emerged into the

sunshine shrieked and waved every pair of arms it had toward the

elevated tracks.

For anybody who figured they'd beat the crowd and jump on that first 7 out of Dodge, we had a message:

HEY TRAIN!

WE WON AGAIN!

WE BEAT THE MARLINS!

WHAT A GAME!

WE CAME FROM BEHIND!

WE DIDN'T LOSE TO LEITER!

AL PITCHED GREAT!

BUT PEDRO PITCHED AWESOME!

WE WERE LOSING ALL DAY!

BUT WE DIDN'T LOSE!

WOODY PLAYED LEFT!

HE'S AN INFIELDER!

HE MADE A LEAPING, LUNGING CATCH!

ROBBING CASTILLO!

THEN HE DOUBLED PIERRE OFF FIRST!

IN THE EIGHTH!

WE CAME BACK!

IN THE BOTTOM OF THE INNING!

BELTRAN TIED IT ON HIS THIRD HIT!

MIKE SMOKED A GROUND-RULE DOUBLE!

THAT PUT US AHEAD!

BRADEN NEARLY BLEW IT!

BUT WE WERE SAVED BY A CALL AT HOME!

WE NEVER GET A CALL ANYWHERE!

BUT TODAY WE DID!

VICTOR DIAZ CAME UP IN THE NINTH!

AND VICTOR DOUBLED!

VICTOR ALWAYS DOES SOMETHING!

RAMON CASTRO WAS UP NEXT!

WILLIE HAD DOUBLE-SWITCHED HIM IN!

WILLIE'S A GENIUS!

RAMON SINGLED VICTOR HOME!

WITH THE RUNNING RUN!

AGAINST GUILLERMO MOTA!

TAKE THAT MOTA!

TAKE THAT MARLINS!

WE WON!

SIXTH IN A ROW!

WE'RE OVER .500!

NEXT STOP, FIRST PLACE!

AND 111TH STREET!

The train, thus informed, rumbled onward and we all went our separate

ways to spread the word in relatively quieter, somewhat less

gesticulative fashion.

As Steve Martin told Garrett Morris when he was proven wrong about the sex appeal of the Festrunk Brothers, it’s okay, Cliff. Many American girls enjoy you, too. They enjoy your protruding buttocks all the time!

So you’re an idiot. Sometimes idiots win world championships.

While I was a little less fatalistic about mild and hazy Aaron Heilman’s chances than you were, I wasn’t exactly betting the next mortgage payment on the Mets dispatching the Beastmaster of 2003. It was said earlier in the week that Pedro hasn’t quite gotten that New York baseball fans didn’t hold him in utter contempt, just Yankees fans (who will never be rightly accused of knowing baseball anyway). In that vein, Josh Beckett knows there’s a difference between New York’s baseball teams. That other one he stifled. This one sullied him good.

But why are we talking about him, let alone them? Let’s talk about that tall drink of water who nobody wanted to sip from. Heilman. No. 1 draft choice. Struggled in the Majors. Stagnated in the minors. Unrequited trade bait. Got the call to fill in, one suspects, for the same reason Greg Brady was picked to be Johnny Bravo: because the costume fit.

Turns out the most reviled Mets starter since Kaztor Ishbrano just needed time — approximately six days — to develop, just as the Mets needed time — same amount — to turn the tide of this season from a wave of despair to a torrent of jubilation.

Time and tide.
Nothing and no one can stop us now.
For better, for worse, this time I’m sure it’s gonna last.

Remember the demi-hit “Tide and Tide” by Basia? Did you know that before going solo, Basia was in a trio called Matt Bianco, which doesn’t quite rhyme with Matt Franco? Did you know they recently got back together after more than fifteen years apart and released a new CD? Did you know they were scheduled to play Westbury on a Sunday night in early March but were postponed because of, à la Alay Soler, visa problems? Did you know they got their visas and rescheduled their Westbury date for Friday night, April 15? Did you know my wife is a huge Matt Bianco and Basia fan?

Well, ya do now.

This was the fourth time that a Met pitcher has flirted with The Great Unmentionable while Stephanie and I have been off doing something classy. Seeing as how we don’t do very much at all, that’s pretty remarkable. We’ve been at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Tanana against the Giants), Sweet Smell of Success (Astacio against the Brewers), Bombay Dreams (Glavine against the Rockies) and, lately, immersed in the pop/jazz/neo-Brazilian stylings of Basia featuring Matt Bianco while Aaron Heilman played the corners of the strike zone like a virtuoso.

We should really get out more often.

Fortunately, we weren’t completely in the dark while history was being brushed up against. The concert didn’t start ’til eight, so we heard Aaron’s early brilliance in the car. Then there was a helpful, lengthy intermission between the dreadful opening act and the brilliant headliners, during which the tiny radio (don’t leave home without it) said it was 4-0. I deduced only one hit had been surrendered. Gary said it was an infield single, but I didn’t know just how infield it was and how (as I saw on the news) it could’ve been gloved by the pitcher and…ah, forget it. As Tom said to Nancy, more or less, why are you crying? We won.

I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed watching it from the couch, but Steph and I sharing the long headphones during intermission ­ and the two of us pumping fists simultaneously when Heilman got Lo Duca looking to close the seventh — was the signature moment of the young season. Basia then came in firing bullets, so it was a win-win for both of us.

We couldn’t have seen Aaron Heilman giving us this night just as we couldn’t have seen .500 was a mere five games away after last Saturday.

It is just .500 but this is so much better than if 5-5 had been accumulated in more random fashion. Two wins, a loss, a win, two losses would be maddeningly inconsistent. This way it’s poetry.

Actually, it’s better than poetry. It’s Aaron to Basia to Pedro.

Nothing and no one can stop us now.*

* Except possibly Leiter and Delgado and those gnats at the top of the Marlin order and whoever else they got. Sorry to step on your beautiful sentiment, Basia, but a fan on a streak has to respect the streak, which in my case means fretting over its imminent demise every few waking moments.

“Something tells me it's going to take a bit more than this to beat Florida, particularly with Heilman vs. Beckett looming as the biggest mismatch since Bambi and Godzilla squared off. (If young Aaron cares to make me look like an idiot, I'm all for that.)”

Hi, my name is Jason, and I'm an idiot.

Those first five dispiriting losses didn't count, right? Just glorified exhibitions, right? The season started when Pedro outlasted Smoltz, right?

At this point, 4-5 doesn't feel too bad. Yeah, Houston appeared dysfunctional and this series was the essence of catching them at the right time (the same thing happened last August: we took two of three from them just before they took off), but that's the way she bounces sometimes. You may have noticed that the Reds benefited from Mets malaise a week or so ago.

Not that I'm terribly concerned with them now that they've packed their old kitbags, but for all the misfiring the erstwhile Colt 45s did, they were in nailbiters for three consecutive dates. Why didn't they win any of them? Maybe because Phil Garner kept Brad Lidge caged in the bullpen the whole series? As inane as it is for a manager to automatically go to a closer because it's the ninth and he has a lead, it's about as stupid to not use your most effective weapon when he can do you some good in the eighth. Instead, he managed to tap John Franco three straight games. How well did that work?

I blame Clemens. Just out of habit.

On the happy side of the field, how about that bench? Anderson, Cairo, Castro and Woodward have been nothing but good news for us, especially in the face of the aches and pains facing Willie's best laid plans. I can't think of much that any of them has done wrong. Though none of them is an obvious home run threat off the bench (that was supposed to be Diaz, but he can go straight to being a star), they are a finely honed unit of sharpshooters that needs a nickname. Rando's Commandoes? Willie's Whipsaws? Desperation Dynamos? We're taking nominations.

And how about that Zambrano? If the score hadn't been mentioned from time to time, I would've assumed he put us in an 8-1 hole. But either his middle name is Houdini or the Astros are royal putzes. Really loved it when he threw the wild pitch that tempted Lane to score from second only to set a trap and tag him out at home (and nearly injure his elbow again but never mind that).

Don't lose hope over Heilman despite all evidence that indicates you should. I mean for tonight. I went to a game last September when Heilman faced off against another 2003 post-season hero, Mark Prior. It seemed hopeless, and it was for almost nine innings, but it stayed close thanks to Aaron's gumption (and the Cubs' simmering case of the vapors). That was — I can't believe I've found yet another excuse to reference this — the afternoon Victor Diaz and Craig Brazell made everything beautiful.

Not that I'd bet against Beckett, mind you.

From around the Majors: ENOUGH ALREADY with the Skanks and the Sox. Both of them. They're tiresome. The whole bit. Yes, we love the Red Sox. Yes, they thrilled us last October. Yes, we continue to thank them for their slaying of the beast in the most satisfying manner of all-time. But go away, both of you. You're sucking up too much oxygen. As for the guy in the stands who may or may not have slapped at Sheffield, watch the replay again. The dude was three sheets or more to the wind. That whole front row had beers lined up on the top of the fence. And baseball wonders why these things happen.

I had hoped for a glimpse of the Natspos' home opener on the telly. I know ESPN was sending Skanks-Sox out to most of the country (which has to be just as bored with it by now), but the Northeast would get an alternate feed. It would have to be the return of the American national sport to the American national capital, right? Even that bloviating sack Chris Matthews taped Hardball from RFK.

So what did ESPN go with? The White Sox at the Indians. All due respect to displaced South Siders and Clevelanders, but where exactly is the constituency in Skanks-Sox blackout territory for that game? How the did two relatively anonymous Midwestern teams in the second week of the season trump Washington's first baseball game in 34 years? Who makes these decisions — the DiamondVision guy?

Which reminds me: On Opening Day, one of those between-innings pop culture quizzes asked some poor sap what year “Another Day In Paradise” by Phil Collins was a hit. The three choices on the board were 1985, 1989 and 1990. Honestly, I couldn't hear the answer he gave, but the PA blasted, “Sorry, the answer is 1990.” Well, not really. It came out in late '89 and was in fact the final song to hit No. 1 on Billboard's Hot 100 in the 1980s. It then lingered on the chart into early 1990. Who constructs a quiz like this? Who makes two of the three prospective answers for an allegedly fun time-filler more or less right but then declares only one of them correct? Why on earth even use this dismal downer of a song on what's supposed an annual day of renewal? And since the contestant wins the worthless prize whether he says 1989, 1990 or the year 2525, can't they just let us sit there in peace and wait for the batter's eye to break down again?

Having found (despite a four-game winning streak) yet another thing to bug me about Shea, I'll be back there tomorrow for Pedro and Al. I plan to greet each of them warmly, one more warmly than the other.

So Willie let the music play. The Astros let another one get away.

Don't get me wrong: I'm thrilled by our grit, vim 'n' vigor, moxie, or

whatever you want to call it. Speed never goes into a slump (though it

often does pop a hammy — did anyone else cringe when Reyes took off

for second in 45-degree weather?) even if David Wright and Mike Piazza

do, and sometimes a little luck is the best weapon of all.

All good things, but I couldn't help noticing that the Astros seemed

incapable of getting out of their own way. Witness the fatal (for them)

eighth inning: Leadoff walk and a double, but they still had a 3-1

lead. Marlon Anderson grounds out (3-2), then Reyes squibs a little

worm killer that John Franco has no play on (3-3). Then, just to quiet

a bunch of Houston bloggers crying (with good reason) about bad luck,

Cairo smacks a grounder to Mike Lamb. Ahh…the name is Bootsy, baby! Mets lead.

Sure, scoring three runs on 200 feet worth of grounders can be a sign

of your team's never-say-die attitude, or that the Fates are smiling

down on you. But it can also mean you're playing a yet-to-gel team

that's commenced to play lousy. Something tells me it's going to take a

bit more than this to beat Florida, particularly with Heilman vs.

Beckett looming as the biggest mismatch since Bambi and Godzilla

squared off. (If young Aaron cares to make me look like an idiot, I'm

all for that.)

As for the return of Senator Al, I confess to some remorse over my recent hard-heartedness. Rich Chere of the Star-Ledger had a nice piece

yesterday morning about Al, who let the reporter rummage around in his

tortured psyche. His suggestion that he rejected the idea of the

Yankees because of how much Met fans would have hated that softened me

up a little, but what really got me was Al talking about how much it

would have meant to him to have trailed only Seaver, Gooden and Koosman

in franchise wins. How many current Met pitchers do you think even know

who Jerry Koosman is?

Who knows — maybe there's a videotape of Al surreptitiously flipping

through the media guide before his tip of the cap to Kooz. And he

flubbed when Tom Glavine joined the team. Regardless, I feel a bit bad

now.

But only a bit. If Leiter's approaching 100 pitches in the top of the

fourth on Saturday, I guarantee my remorse will be in check.

Speaking of which, was that vintage John Franco, or what?  When he

got two strikes on Reyes, I said, “Uh-oh, Reyes is exactly the kind of

young, overeager hitter Franco carves up by throwing  junk off the

plate.” But then I realized I'd been using that line for 15 years, and

it stopped being true sometime in the late 1990s. More times than I

care to recall, I watched Johnny throw balls that those young,

overeager hitters ignored, leading either to walks or some kind of

slow-motion John Franco debacle. And indeed, after Reyes got his bat on

one of those not-quite-junky-enough pitches, screw-ups ensued. The

outcome wasn't obviously Franco's fault, but it did happen with him on the mound, so….

Nothing personal, Johnny (honestly), but I'm glad it's Houston's problem.

P.S. Joe Grzenda,

one of 16,583 men to play for the 1967 New York Mets, handed President

Bush the ball for the ceremonial first pitch at the Nationals' home

opener. (Naturally the Met angle will be criminally underplayed by

those philistines in D.C.) The ball was the same one Grzenda threw for

the last pitch in Senators' history. Now that's cool. It would have

been cooler if Livan Hernandez had thrown that same ball for the first

pitch to Craig Counsell, but of course that wasn't going to happen.

(What if Counsell had fouled it off?) Anyway, shucks.